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Chalet GirlsThe Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive
Titles · Authors · Categories · Readers' Picks · What's New · Make a Donation
Story: Chalet Girls · Author: scifiscribbler
DISCLAIMER: Don't read if under the age of majority in your area. No, really.
It's naughty. And you probably just want straight porn anyway. Go on, leave. Go
on. Go on! That's it. No, don't wait there, I can still see you. Go... That's
it. Well done.
CHALET GIRLS
"Couldn't we have got six?"
"Why - Oh. Two each. No, you've forgotten. Eight rooms, three of us. We wouldn't
get any to bite at all if we did that. Tell you what, once we've got 'em done,
we'll pick one each, play cards or something for the other two. We can pick
another up for the loser when we're back in Geneva. Deal?"
"Deal."
"Deal."
The room she sat in was small, perhaps three metres by three. The chair in which
she sat was the only furniture. Her clothes lay neatly folded in one corner, or
presumably they were her clothes.
Her fingers ceaselessly circled her erect nipples. It could be assumed that she
derived some pleasure from this, but an outsider could never be completely sure;
her face remained blank, almost determinedly so, though perhaps that impression
merely stemmed from the bone structure underlying her impeccably beautiful face.
A true ice maiden, were it not for the fact that the typical ice maiden very
seldom gets topless, let alone nude, and starts playing with her nipples.
One would think that the impassive archetype, too, would very seldom develop
hard nipples; somehow the concept doesn't gel with the traditional image.
Princesses of the storybook stern mould do not pleasure themselves or touch
themselves in any way, as a rule; and it's highly likely they never get
pleasured in any way by others. Either the handsome prince of fairytales is part
of a children's story and the tacit assumption is that sex doesn't matter in the
least, that some process of bacterial fission or sculpting from clay got all the
characters to the start line and that they'll all live on forever, never
multiplying or even performing rudimentary addition, or the prince is the
archetypal bastard and the princess an object lesson dreamed up by insecure
males in response to female emancipation which serves to show, so they think,
that secretly all women dream of being ground into the floor, of having their
very life rendered nothing more than a possession of the prince's, for him to do
with as he wishes. Most of the time said prince is the type of male who not only
couldn't find the clitoris if he tried but isn't going to waste his time trying
when he could be romping home. Probably limp-dicked, too.
In short, the woman's appearance and activity were utterly at odds with each
other, and there are far too many militant feminists round here for me not to
have been close to brainwashed.
Nothing else happened for perhaps a full day; the woman sat, maintaining her
position by dint of absolutely no movement bar her hands, her eyes fixed on some
point on the far wall - where, our hypothetical observer would be utterly at a
loss to say without the very closest of examinations; the wall seemed utterly
flat and without features, perhaps a little glassy but nothing beyond that.
At the end of that day she blinked. Her fingers continued in their course at the
same speed, as if nothing had happened - and, of course, nothing spectacular had
- and her posture remained the same. Her eyes still held fixed to the same
unobtrusive point on the wall; but now tears, a day's worth of cleansing for her
eyes, welled against her lower lids and flooded down her cheeks.
Nothing more occurred for another twenty-four hours. Then a door opened behind
her. The sound did not disturb her; now she was back as she had been forty-eight
hours ago; the tear tracks had now dried into a state that was effectively
imperceptible.
The entrant walked up to the woman and stood alongside her, casting a cursory
glance at the wall which held the woman's attention. Thick blue sunglasses
reflected the wall's sheen back toward it.
The entrant carried a small plastic jug filled with a murky orange liquid and a
funnel. "Open," he said.
The woman's legs swung open immediately, exposing her labia to the air, hanging
off the edge of the chair on which she sat.
The entrant rolled his eyes. "I had forgotten how much of the process is
hardwired to sex... Open your mouth," he said, impatiently.
Her mouth opened obediently, instantly. The entrant placed the end of the funnel
inside her mouth, beyond the wall of her teeth, and tilted the wider end upward
slightly. "Close your mouth."
Teeth and lips clamped down firmly on the plastic tube. The entrant raised the
jug, being careful not to block or even partially obscure the woman's view of
the wall, and began to pour the orange liquid into the funnel. At regular
intervals he told her to swallow. And then he left. She continued to gaze at the
same point on the wall, and blinked five minutes later. Once her eyes closed,
however, they would not reopen. Water nonetheless spilled out from the confines
of her lids, reopening the tear tracks of earlier.
She sat there with her eyes closed now, legs splayed over the side edges of the
chair exposing her pussy to any who entered, fingers still working on her
nipples, which were now sore, heedless of all things, in effective sensory
deprivation - no content reached her dormant mind.
The smooth grey wall at which she had stared for so long went black. Somewhere,
someone had turned the wallscreen and it's subliminal messages off.
Her name had been Natalie Allen. Soon, it would be again. At the moment,
however, she had no name. She had no consciousness and no identity.
Academics of one sort or another have isolated a number of points, of which
these are the principal three, and defined them as essentially specious;
suggesting that in fact the entire world, the entire universe, multiverse or
indeed whatever encompasses that and everything else - the whole of creation and
all the myriad other hypothetical creations that may exist somewhere, somehow,
somewhen - are all one hive mind, and that we are but relatively independent
parts of it. Thus, we have been described as relatively independent
sub-totalities. Such things as names, identities, consciousness itself - these,
the theory goes, are wholly false, specious attempts to separate Self from
Other, a distinction which, the theory goes, is utterly meaningless.
Now, I've already vented at reactionary males and at feminists, so I won't touch
the academics this time around. However...
The boundary between Self and Other, meaningless or not, is the only thing that
keeps the Self's will in charge of the Self's body. Certain lessons learned
during your upbringing are, in these terms, the effect of Other transgressing on
the boundaries of your Self. And these lessons then inform Self's behaviour.
The whole aim of mind control, then, is to break, twist, contract, fracture,
drill through or in some other way impose Other on Self in such a way that Self
cannot override the control Other has gained - in the case of lessons learned in
childhood, the instinctive actions can be overridden by conscious action. The
goal of total mind control, clearly, must be to intermingle the suggestions of
Other into Self's consciousness so that Self naturally does what Other wishes.
So, when Natalie and her university flatmates were abducted three days ago, the
chemicals used to crush their resistance were also geared toward the induction
of a hallucinogenic state in which Self and Other commingled.
A lot of female students these days apply for work as chalet girls in the Alps,
drawn in by the somewhat over-romantic and almost fictionalised accounts of
those who have gone before. Why those who have gone before do this is something
of a mystery, but is probably down to one of two possible explanations.
The chalet girls want the next lot to go and experience the same crushing
boredom, hard work, and absence of skiing in close proximity to snow as they
were forced to experience, or they haven't got a choice in the matter. In either
case, Natalie Allen, Kelly Johnson, Tina Smith, Rachael Barrett and Sally
Williams, the inhabitants of a small and rather poky but much-beloved flat in
Newcastle, where they study History of Art, chose to spend their 2000 summer
holiday in the Swiss Alps as chalet girls, or as they put it, "Sun, ski and
sex... and you get paid for it!"
Being chalet girls for three chauvinistic and malicious students who normally
attended an expensive international university in Geneva was not quite what
they'd hoped for; Natalie alone got her butt slapped five times in the first
half hour, despite keeping a careful watch for it. Kelly was volunteered by Ulf,
the German and probably the richest of the group, for a hypnosis show.
No one told her it was going to be a risqué hypnosis show until she was under,
which would have been OK had she not proved to be so deeply susceptible; once
under she literally couldn't resist.
"...OK, now sleep, but keep your eyes open..." Something seemed to switch off in
Kelly's eyes; some of her prior liveliness vanished. The amused glint which had
characterised her even throughout the trials of the chalet in that firs week was
snuffed out. "That's it, good girl," the hypnotist said, sounding as if she was
a five-year-old who kept wetting herself. "Now, do you see this?" he asked,
holding a 12" vibrator up in front of her.
"Yes," she replied, her voice quiet and soft. Natalie almost didn't recognise
her as the ebullient girl she shared a flat with in Newcastle, and shuddered as
she realised how much of a person is in the way they act.
"Good girl," the hypnotist said again, somehow contriving to make his voice
sound even more condescending. "When you awaken you will believe, totally and
completely, that you are a man. As far as you are concerned, you have no breasts
but you do have a nice big cock. A cock, in fact, that is exactly the same size
and shape as this one."
The audience laughed to a man. Four of the women, however, merely raged silently
in sympathy with their friend. How they could treat someone who only had only
gone along with this because she was forced to in this way was utterly beyond
Natalie, Tina, Rachael and Sally. And just because Kelly had the bad luck to be
possibly the best hypnotic subject conceivable.
"And you will believe that I have done cock voodoo; that I have obtained from
somewhere a perfect replica of your cock - this vibrator - and you will believe
that you experience whatever happens to this vibrator. Is that clear?"
"Yes," she replied.
"Good dog," he said. "Now-"
And, as he'd expected, he was overtaken by hilarity. Natalie almost bit through
her lip trying to keep from screaming.
The hypnotist, like the dirty-minded showman he was, timed his next comment
perfectly, just as the laughter subsided enough for him to be audible once more.
"One more thing - you'll be too scared of me to try and retaliate and you'll
know that walking away won't help."
For a fleeting moment, Natalie smiled with a sense of cosmic justice revealed.
Clearly he'd got himself injured doing this at some time before, and badly
enough to prevent him from retaining the possibility as extra spice, which most
showmen would. She wondered what the girl in question had done... Kicked him in
the balls, possibly, or thrown him off the stage. Was that a trace of bruising
she could see just below his hairline?
Natalie had cause, not long after, to suspect that this was a private buzz for
the hypnotist and not an item included for it's positive effect on the audience.
He had another of his female subjects give Kelly a thorough voodoo blow job, and
the audience found this hilarious; when he used a gay male subject, most of the
audience was subdued, with only the occasional giggle and the more common
disgusted muttering. Ulf, Ringo (a Cantonese youngster who bitterly resented his
parents' choice of European first name) and Benny (a fellow Brit) seemed to be
among those disgusted, which Natalie supposed was something in their favour,
though not much.
She fiercely hoped that Ulf regretted volunteering Kelly now. It wouldn't change
anything, but it'd make her feel a little better.
Anyway, the two acts of fellatio weren't too bad - though watching Kelly perk up
and go into the heights of ecstasy due to a woman's ministrations was
unsettling, and the squirming, male-homophobe reaction to being sucked off
without being able to prevent it sat oddly on her face. What really upset the
girls was the hypnotist's next stage. Under the guise of buying the vibrator in
an imaginary shop from a subject-cum-shopkeeper, he tested it for durability -
by smacking it around a chrome pole - and fireproofing - by cigarette lighter.
None of the males in the audience laughed at that. Only two of the women found
it even remotely funny. The thought that could have been me was running through
everyone's mind, and no man likes the suggestion that something might happen to
his todger.
"Well, that was cool."
"Yeah. Well..."
"No, not that bit, obviously."
"Given me an idea, though."
"I dread to think."
"Now I know how to pay Tak back for the last week of term."
"You sick fuck."
"Yup."
"Time to start, do you think?"
"Nah," two voices replied in unison. One of them continued. "Give it another
week. The prelims won't be finished yet."
Then, a week later, three days ago, Natalie, Kelly, Rachael, Sally and Tina
watched Benny, Ringo, and Ulf set off for a day's skiing with about four
thousand pounds' worth of equipment each. They watched them round the corner,
then looked at each other and sighed.
"Thank God they're gone," they chanted in unison, their mantra over the
fortnight in the chalet so far. Then they sighed, and set about clearing the
place up.
Wondering how their employers could spend five hours in the chalet each night,
all of it asleep, and still create such an astonishing mess that it took five
girls the whole morning to clear up each morning, Natalie turned the hi-fi on.
Now this was another piece of ridiculously costly equipment, and hadn't been
used by the annoying trio all holiday; they just weren't inside enough. And yet
it looked so new it could almost have been bought specifically for the trip.
There was a small chunk missing at one corner, as if it had been dropped
somewhere, but beyond that...
Nothing. She stood there for a moment, eyes closed, already tired as a result of
having had barely four hours' sleep the previous night, and about the same for
most of the nights of the holiday so far, and let the Manics wash over her.
For a new system, it did have an irritating background buzz. Probably because it
got dropped, but still irritating. On the other hand, it was still a better
quality than anything else they had to hand.
That was half-past nine.
At a quarter to ten a timer attached to a small metal cylinder in the central
heating vent clicked off. A gas began to hiss out, masked by the Manics singing
You're Tender and You're Tired.
By half-past ten Benny, Ringo and Ulf were drinking coffee upslope and trying to
decide when it'd be safe to go back.
By eleven, when they opened the chalet door with expensive and double-purpose
facemasks in place - the plastic mouthpiece being designed the same way that gas
masks were designed during WWII - the five chalet girls were unconscious and
dreaming, their minds a worrying mix of Self and Other.
Other was about to do some serious design work on their psyches.
And now we come full circle, with Natalie, Kelly, Rachael, Sally and Tina
standing inertly in a row, devoid of thought yet somehow uncertain, in front of
the three men they despise - or once despised.
To find someone despicable is to make a value judgement; a value judgement is
one of the many things now beyond the scope of the five chalet girls.
They have been freed of their confinement in the hidden basement level of the
chalet - which, they unfortunately did not know, was built by Ulf's family to
somewhat unusual specifications - now that their minds have been reduced to
plain, smooth warm wax. It is time for the trio of obnoxious males to leave
their imprint, for Other to leave it's stamp indelibly on Self.
Although, this time, that is specious; there is no Self. There is only...
slavery.
Titles · Authors · Categories · Readers' Picks · What's New · Make a Donation
Story: Chalet Girls · Author: scifiscribbler